


Story for Another Time

by callmehamish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Anal Sex, M/M, Narrative, University, first-person, sexual revelations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-28
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2017-11-08 19:03:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/446459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmehamish/pseuds/callmehamish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John isn't gay...right? The things we discover during college.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Story for Another Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [firsttimelady](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=firsttimelady), [orngefriday](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=orngefriday).



    Sherlock Holmes. He’s well-known on his university campus, but less affectionately than infamously. One would think a man as remarkable as him with such rare, fantastic talents would be someone admired, maybe even revered.

    But no. Most of his classmates are revolted by him. Most of his classmates are, for some misguided, naïve reason, afraid of him! I have to admit, when I first met the man, I wasn’t immediately taken with him either. He was blunt, but not unkind. He knew things about me that no one else had readily known, and it felt a bit intrusive.  
But anyway, hello, my name is John Watson, and this is the story of my affair with Sherlock Holmes.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––-–––––––––

    I woke up to the blaring sound of my alarm clock. My second year of university was coming up quickly, and I had to register for a new roommate. I was hoping to have a room all to myself this year because last year I had been paired with a dramatically unintelligent man. I’m not saying I’m the smartest of blokes, but I am majoring in pre-med, whereas he was a business major for the sake of being paid by his rich daddy to drink away his youth. Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked.

    It was a Monday. I was scheduled to take a girl’s shift at work, and I had to open. So I hopped out of bed, noticing that I had forgotten to change my alarm and my work was beginning in less than fifteen minutes. I scrambled to get appropriately dressed and hastily brushed my teeth. Eight minutes left, I thought, I can make it in time.

    I grabbed my bike and pedaled at top speed all the way to work, arriving with two minutes to spare. It was an unnecessary rush, in the end. I walked up the walkway, I noticed the neon “OPEN” sign was on, and the front door unlocked. I entered, and found my co-worker (who was supposedly out of town) standing at the front counter.

    She smiled cheerily and said, “Good morning, John!”

    I smiled briefly back. “I thought you were supposed to be out of town for a few days, Sally.”

    She giggled. “Oh, John! I forgot to call you, did I? Mum came down with something, so we postponed. You don’t have to worry about filling in for me today.”

    Clearly not, I thought. “Right. Well, as long as I’m here, I can help you get things set up.”

    She put a hand on my chest as I tried to pass by. “Don’t worry, John. I’ve got everything under control here.”

    I looked her in the face then at her hand, and back at her face. “Uh-huh. Well, good luck to you today, then...”

    She smiled again. I was starting to think her smiles were only for courtesy’s sake. “Ta, John. Have a good one.”

    I hopped back on my bicycle and headed over to the university housing office. Once there, I waited in their lobby for a half-hour. That was the first time I saw him.

    He came out of the office, shaking hands and smiling at the head of the department, Mr. Lestrade. They seemed chummy. As he passed by me, he glanced down. I hadn’t intended to make eye contact with him, but it happened. I remember those eyes still. They were vibrant, and I felt almost like he was not just looking at me, but he was seeing me. Truly, wholly, and better than anyone I had ever met. He left the office without saying a word, but as I saw him pass by the window, a grin was plastered across his face. I felt like I had seen the man somewhere before.

    “Mr. Watson, feel free to come in at any moment,” Mr. Lestrade said. I got up and walked into his office, taking my seat. Lestrade was digging through his files, looking for mine. “Walker, Walert, Waterson...ah, here we go. ‘Watson, John H.’ So, John, how’s your summer been?”

 

    “It’s been quite fine, thank you.” I didn’t mind the small talk, but I was here for a new roommate, not a friendly conversation. “Uh, I was hoping I could request a single room, sir.”

    Lestrade set the file on the desk and leaned back in his chair. “A single room? Not many second-years get that option, John. I’d be hard-pressed to do that favor for you. Most of the third- and fourth-year students have already filled ‘em up.”

    I pursed my lips. “Well, could I at least have a peek at the roommates list, then? I really would love to not be stuck with a total moron again.”

    Lestrade laughed. “Ah, yes. The whiskey-and-Coke incident. I’m sorry ‘bout all that. Most of the first-years are pretty rowdy, aren’t they?”

    I feigned a chortle. “Yeah, to say the least. So how about that list?”

    Lestrade thought for a moment, biting his lip. He pulled another file out and laid it open in front of him. “Only ‘cause you’re a nice kid, John. Here, I’ve got a list o’ kids you might find likeable.”

    I browsed through the list of applicants. Eventually I spotted that peculiar name. I hadn’t realized it belonged to the man with the intense gaze, but it stuck out and drew me in.

    “Sherlock Holmes? Who names their kid ‘Sherlock’?” I chuckled, and looked up from the paper.

    Lestrade was staring at me without humor. “Sherlock’s a close family friend o’ mine.”

    I felt awkward. “Oh, uh, I’m...I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

    He laughed out loud and reached forward, snatching the file. “I’m just pullin’ your leg, John! It’s an odd name. His parents are odd people. But you know, I think you two would actually be a good fit for each other! I’ll go ahead and set you up. He can be a bit difficult at times, but he’s a good kid.”

    I nodded. We filled out our respective paperwork. “Your new room is Room 221 in Hall B,” Lestrade told me, and then somehow I ended up wrangled into a conversation about my job and–no, wait, that’s off-topic. Back to Sherlock.

 

    As I was leaving the office, Lestrade called out to me, “Hey, John! What’d you think of him, by the way?”

    I stopped. “Think of who?”

    “Sherlock, of course.”

    “Well, I’ve never met him, so I don’t know what you mean.”

    “Oh, he didn’t say hello? He was in here just before you. He specifically asked if you were set up with a room yet.”

    I looked toward the window. That smirk, the glance, the whole aura about him. Then it hit me: he was a customer the other day. Something had been different, though. Had he got a haircut? Maybe I was just working too hard to remember. It was a Saturday night: our busiest.

    “Wait, did you say he specifically asked for me? Why would he do that?”

    Lestrade shrugged. “He figures you’re both in the same sort of situation and need new roommates. I thought you were pals?”

    “No, we...we talked once at my restaurant. I don’t think I even ever got his name.”

    Lestrade’s eyebrow went up. “Oh, yeah? Well, good thing you’ll be living together now, eh?” He chuckled and put files away. “All right, see ya later!”

    The eyebrow–what the hell was that for? Good thing? Did he think...? “O-oh, God, no, we’re not...I-I’m not–”

    “Hey, nothin’ to be ashamed of, John! We all love who we love.”

    “I’m not gay, though...”

    Lestrade eyed me for a second. “Oh. Sorry, then. I just thought...yeah, never mind. Have a good day, John.”

    I waved, thanking him abruptly and muttered a goodbye as I left the office. Why would he think we were interested in each other? What gave him that idea? Do people just normally assume two men are gay if they engage each other these days?

––––––––––––––––––––––––––-–––––––––

    I walked to the bike racks after that, feeling a bit unsettled. Who was this Sherlock character? I mean, now that I think about it, I remember meeting him and discussing my roommate situation, but I didn’t know we went to the same school. I didn’t think he would want to willingly live with someone he knew absolutely nothing about. It did resolve my predicament, however, and if Lestrade was any sort of trustworthy person then I guess Sherlock couldn’t be all that bad. Right?

    “John Watson,” I heard a baritone voice call out. I spun around, and there he was, standing against the wall with leg up so his heel rested there, too. He came forward, shaking my hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again. Officially.”

    I couldn’t deny that he was charismatic. He had class, too. He was dressed in a button-up purple shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and had on a pair of black slacks. I wondered if he knew it was summer.

    “Yes, uh, hello. Same to you. I didn’t think you would remember me, honestly. Lestrade told me you specifically asked to set up a room together?”

    “That’s correct. It sounded like we were in similar problematic spots as far as dormitories go, so I figured to kill two birds with one stone, as it were.”

    His English was more formal than most 20-year-olds I’d ever met. “Right. Well, thank you. I’ve got to get back to my aunt’s house to start packing my things.”

    He nodded. “I look forward to our time together, John,” he declared. Then he walked away, leaving me to wonder what I had to look forward to.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––-–––––––––

    The school year had begun. My first couple of weeks living with Sherlock passed by uneventfully. He kept his room tidy, though the living room was somewhat of a mess. I was normally gone–between work and class, I didn’t have much free time–but when I was around, he was pleasant and kept largely to himself.

 

    The first night worth noting came four and a half weeks into the school year. I had a couple of classes cancelled due to the professor’s illness, and Sherlock was taking his notes off the class website. (He was something of a genius and apparently knew most of the material already. Sometimes I wondered what he was even doing wasting time at university.) I decided to sit down and half a proper chat with him.

    “Sherlock,” I engaged, “Has it occurred to you yet that we haven’t talked? I mean, we haven’t gotten to know each other, and we’ve been living together for more than a month.”  
Sherlock was lying on the sofa, hands steepled. He looked over at me. “I would have to disagree with you on that, John. I feel I know you very well by this point.”

    I cocked my head, wondering why he would say that. “But Sherlock, we’ve never–”

    Sherlock sat up quickly and looked to me. “Never had an in-depth conversation with each other in order to understand the minute inner-workings of the other’s mind through the most subtle of physical cues? John, I really had the notion that you were less dull that that.”

    I was taken slightly aback. Up until now, Sherlock had been, as Mr. Lestrade had said, a “good guy.” “Excuse me? The only things I know for sure about you are the fact that you play the violin too damn early in the morning, and that your love for chemistry has taken over the sitting room.”

    Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Brilliant deductions, but I was hoping you’d gone deeper. My turn. You’re a pre-Med student, an aspiration you’ve held since you were a young boy, perhaps because of a family member you helped save from an injury. You ride a bike, but you have a driver’s license, so you clearly feel you either need the exercise, or your monthly income is too small to afford a car-–most likely the latter, I’m afraid. You don’t talk to your family much, and during summer you live with your aunt, which suggests you’ve had some sort of a falling out with them recently, probably because of your father’s incessant drinking and your younger sister’s brief involvement with street drugs. You’re intelligent, but not clever enough to make deductions based on the things you observe–-or rather see, in your case. You care too much about what people think of you, so you always adopt a pleasant demeanor for social situations. However, you rarely engage in conversation or plan activities and outings. Tell me: is any of this insofar a misappropriated understanding?”

    I was stunned. I knew nearly nothing about this man, and he, solely through living with me, knew about the way I thought and felt, as well as my family history, something I’ve never mentioned to anyone outside of the bedroom. I was speechless and sat there staring at him for too long. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “John?”

    “Yes, I-I’m fine. That...that was bloody brilliant...”

    He looked confused. “Brilliant?”

    “Yes, that was extraordinary–that was quite extraordinary.”

    Something shimmered in his eyes. “Well, that’s...not what people normally say...”

    “What do you people normally say?” I asked. How could anyone possibly not be completely and totally blown away by his deductions?

    “‘Piss off.’”

    We chuckled for a moment. Then there was a knock on the door. I looked up, wondering who it could have been.

    Sherlock hopped from his seat, over the coffee table, to the front door. He swung it open. A young man, redheaded, well-built, was on the other side. He and Sherlock said hello and exchanged hugs. This was a bit of a shock for me–I had an inkling of an idea that Sherlock avoided physical contact. Who was that man, anyway? Why was Sherlock hugging him?

    Then I remembered that Lestrade had assumed the two of us were...well, together. And it hit me: Sherlock is gay.

    And that young man was his boyfriend...right?

    Sherlock turned and approached me with the ginger in tow. “John, this is my...friend, Victor.”

    Victor smiled. “Hello, John.” I stood from my perch on the table and walked over to Victor, and we shook hands.

    “Nice to meet you, Victor. Uh, Sherlock, you didn’t tell me we were having anybody over tonight.” I felt a bit disheveled, especially in comparison to Sherlock, whose wardrobe seemed to be entirely comprised of semi-formal clothing.

    “That’s because we aren’t, John. I’m going out for the night. I’ll be back late; don’t bother waiting up for me.” He turned back to Victor and said, “Ready?”

    Victor nodded. He flashed another smile at me. “Have a good night, John. I hope to see more of you in the future.”

    And with that, the two of them were off. The door shut, and I was left standing in the living room, feeling excessively awkward. And...brushed aside? Replaced? Why did I feel replaced? What could Sherlock have been replacing? And what about that Victor fellow? He was certainly polite enough, but...why didn’t I entirely like him?

    I made myself a cup of tea and went to sleep before I could think any more about my feelings.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––-–––––––––

    The next few days passed largely without incident. I tried to pay more attention to Sherlock and his habits in order to understand some more about him, but it wasn’t very easy. Most of what he did, he did on his own, or it involved some kind of science I didn’t fully understand. I did eventually learn that, even though he was an undergraduate student, he aided the chemistry professor in instruction. I also discovered that his older brother, Mycroft, was a professor of political science, (as well as president of a number of clubs and committees on campus). It didn’t seem as if the two of them were particularly close, though. Anyway, that’s a story for a different time.

    Victor (Trevor, I learned was his last name) would come around every weekend, and he and Sherlock would go out and have their fun. One night, however, they came back before I had gone to bed...

    Victor opened the door, tugging Sherlock inside by the hand. They chuckled and exchanged a light kiss. Then they saw me watching. I turned away quickly, staring intently at my textbook.

    Victor said to Sherlock, “On second thought, I have a class early tomorrow. I think I should get to rest.”

    Sherlock muttered in agreement, another kiss, and the door shut.

    “So, how was your night?” I ventured to ask after an awkward silence. I could tell he hadn’t moved from his spot near the door.

    “John, you’re...”

    I shifted my weight, bringing my knee up to the chair so I could angle myself away from Sherlock more.

    “I’m what?” I brought myself to ask.

    I heard Sherlock step closer. I tensed up. The answer was clear to me long ago. Sherlock clearly knew what I thought of him–he knew everything about me. It didn’t hit me that I knew what I thought of him until the night I met Victor Trevor, though.

    Sherlock put a hand on my shoulder. I pulled away quickly, slamming my textbook shut and tossing it onto the couch as I stood and went to the window. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Sherlock. Whether out of anxiety or jealousy, I knew not. I just knew that I wanted Sherlock like I had never wanted a man before, or since.

    Sherlock came to me quickly, “Victor and I...it’s...it’s a complicated issue,” he eventually confessed.

    “He’s your boyfriend, Sherlock. And he trusts you. Don’t betray that.”

    “Ah, the ever righteous John. Always concerned with loyalty and honor.”

    Did I detect a hint of chagrin? “Excuse me if I have a conscience, you wanker,” I spat as I turned around. Sherlock didn’t waver. He continued staring at my face. His brow furrowed, but without anger in his eyes.

    I set my jaw and crossed my arms.

    Oh, God, who the hell am I kidding anymore?

    And then it happened.

    I flung myself forward as Sherlock stepped to reach for me. I wrapped my arms around the back of his neck, and he grabbed my buttocks, lifting me up so I could straddle him around the waist. We kissed feverishly, my bitterness fading with each gruff exchange, each less-than-tender bite on the lip. I pulled at his head, directing him to the couch. He stumbled backward, and we collapsed. I sat on his lap, briefly stopping the carnal display of affections. I grinned and let out a nervous laugh.

    “I’ve never done this before...” I admitted.

    Sherlock began pulling my shirt over my head. We threw it to the floor, and he said, “Then let me show you the ropes.”

    I laughed again, “I really hope that’s not a euphemism.”

    We dove into it again, kissing less forcefully. His tongue brushed over mine, and his pillowy lips retreated from my mouth, moving down my jaw and neck. He kissed a line across my shoulders and inched his fingers into my waistband. I closed my eyes, breathing slowly as he licked and kissed at my nipple. I grabbed his wrist, slowly guiding his hand from my hips to my crotch. He tenderly felt my stiffening penis and stopped kissing me.

    I looked down. His eyes were asking me for permission. I cleared my throat, and he unbuttoned my pants. I inhaled sharply as he pulled the elastic of my briefs down, releasing my cock. He wrapped his long, thin fingers around it and began slowly stroking up and down. I began breathing heavier as he increased the speed of his movements. It was a brilliant sensation, pulsing every time he drew my foreskin up and over the glans of my member. I cursed softly, bucking as gently as I could muster.

    And then he stopped. I looked through half-closed eyes. “What’s wrong?”

    He smiled. “Nothing, John. It’s all...so right...”

    I scoffed. “You sound like a terrible porno flick.”

    He chuckled deeply, grabbing me and lifting me up. He turned and laid me onto my back, standing. He undid his own trousers, dropping them to the floor and revealing his own pulsing erection. I gulped. It was a formidable sight, and I’d never done anything involving anal sex.

    “Are you sure about all of this, John? I don’t want to push you.”

    “Shut up and get inside me,” I commanded. Sherlock climbed onto the couch, placing his hand next to my head and spitting into the other. He rubbed my entrance. I felt myself pucker, but tried to relax. He fingered around my entrance for a couple moments before sliding his fingertip in delicately. I groaned, forcing myself to allow him. He continued on like that, slowly inching more of his digit inside each time and leaving it there, permitting me to adjust. Every couple minutes, he would slide another finger inside, repeating his initial routine. I resorted to using a tub of Vaseline I found in the end table as lubrication. “External use only” my arse. No pun intended...

    Sherlock eventually removed his three longest fingers from me. I inhaled as he said, “Get ready, John,” and inserted his erection.

    I moaned, probably too loud. “Oh...oh–fuck, Sherlock! Oh, GOD!”

    He remained for a moment with his penis inside of me, waiting for me to adjust to the size. Eventually he began to withdraw, slowly, deliberately. He inched forward, pulled backward tenderly again, and gradually began his thrusting. The regimen of fingering had prepared me, but the feeling of his cock against my prostate was sending my sensations into overdrive. I was hyperaware of the sweat pooling in the hollow at the base of my neck; I could smell Sherlock more vividly than ever before–he smelled smoky, like a bonfire, but sweet, like cinnamon rolls; and I could feel his body and my body becoming one as we fucked into oblivion.

    After a few minutes, I couldn’t resist the warm urge building in my groin. I held my breath a moment, and Sherlock stopped thrusting. “FffffffffuUUUCK,” I burst out as I ejaculated. It squirted onto my chest and my stomach, and my veins became filled with euphoria as bright as the sun on a warm summer evening. I felt heavenly, as if I had apotheosized.

    Sherlock waited a moment, and slowly began driving into me once more. It took him less than a minute to reach his own climax. He poured his seed out inside of me, leaning down to bite my neck gently while he came. He pulled out and we shared one more kiss.

    He stood, his stiff penis already losing its rigor. He grabbed his clothing from the floor. I watched as he sauntered off to the restroom, with the same grin from our run-in at the office growing across his face. I laughed to myself, anticipating the next round, whenever it may happen.

––––––––––––––––––––––––––-–––––––––

    To this day, I don’t think Victor Trevor ever knew what happened. We continued on with each other for weeks behind the poor bloke’s back, but it was so worth it, in the end.

    After all, two’s a company, and three’s a crowd. But that is a story for another time.


End file.
